


When Stomachs Rebel

by DoreyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Food Poisoning, Food poisoning is gross and horrible for everybody, He even puts down the umbrella!, M/M, Mycroft is a surprisingly supportive boyfriend, Staying in the bathroom, mentions of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>…There <i>are</i> worse things than food poisoning, he knows it.</p>
<p>He just doesn’t seem able to come up with many at the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Stomachs Rebel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Food Poisoning Square on my HC_Bingo card... And thus is a bit gross, because food poisoning is HORRIBLE AND AWFUL and deserves to be burnt on a fire or something.
> 
> ...Um, yes, may also contain a bit of fluff. And sort of cuddling. And Mycroft actually putting down his umbrella for once!

There are worse things than food poisoning.

He’s _sure_ there are: like actual poisoning, for example. Or forgetting to do up your fly in front of fifty of your colleagues, or being shot (which _has_ actually almost happened to him once or twice, so he feels qualified to judge), or neglecting to pay your bills on time and having your TV cut off halfway through the latest Doctor Who, or- _or_ -

…There _are_ worse things than food poisoning, he knows it.

He just doesn’t seem able to come up with many at the moment.

It’d struck halfway through the day, when he’d been sitting at his desk and vainly trying to struggle through the post-Sherlock paperwork. A certain queasy roll of his stomach, the briefest gag and he’d spent the next half hour clutching a toilet in the men’s loos and vaguely hoping that his lungs would stay in place.

(When he’d finally recovered enough to actually _think_ he’d firmly blamed the dubious sausage grabbed last night between crime scenes. Donovan had only rolled her eyes and practically ordered him home.)

The walk to his car had been awful – acutely, undeniably _awful_ with his stomach churning and his legs ready to collapse out from under him at any second. The drive back to his flat had, somehow, been even _worse_ \- with Anderson reluctantly at the wheel, and the whole world cruelly swaying outside the window, and a bag clutched desperately between his knees. And as for the actual climb _up_ to his flat…

Well, the less said the better. He barely got in through the door, and to the bathroom, and over the toilet again with his throat actually _burning_.

…He’s still there, God knows how many hours later. Still doubled over the stark white. Still clutching his stomach and dealing with the inevitability of having to empty it again.

He’s thrown up six times in the past few hours, six _damn_ times, and he’s pretty sure that he has at least two more in him. There’s a certain sickly feeling at the back of his throat, one that compels him to retch and retch until there’s nothing left but a dry tongue and no water. And on top of those things, on _top_ of those things-!

He’s shaking, tired little shudders that he can’t seem to help. Sweating too, tiredly dripping with it in a way so thorough that he can’t wipe it away. And can’t stop himself from slumping tiredly all over the toilet seat either, or vaguely wanting to die, or definitely never wanting to see another bit of food ever again…

Or being _miserable_.

Because, yes, he _is_ miserable as he barely manages to force himself back from the toilet seat and slump weakly over to the side. Profoundly miserable, incredibly miserable, _astoundingly_ miserable in all ways. And why shouldn’t he be? He is _slumped_ over a _toilet_ in his own _bathroom_ after a _terrifying_ ride with _Anderson_ , he feels like _death_ warmed up and is _pretty_ sure that he might _actually_ be dead soon, he doesn’t even know _what_ time of the night it _is_ and there’s _nobody_ around to _tell_ him or _soothe_ him or even _put him in a bodybag_ , and he’s _slumped_ over a _toilet_!

…He’s aware that he’s already stated that point, but it’s so good that it deserves repeating.

As does the miserable point, and the alone point, and the _miserable_ point, and the ‘all the people who he knows are completely selfish _bastards_ who won’t even _notice_ when he dies right here and slowly starts rotting and getting eaten by Alsatians’ point, and-!

And the door to his flat does, of _course_ , swing open at that very moment. He hears it gently bumping against the wall and winces wearily to himself.

…There’s still a long pause, a silent pause, before he manages to draw back, “hello?”

(Or, more accurately: “’Ello?” Or, more accurately _still_ : “Hannnnarghlo” in a barely audible voice.)

There’s an even longer pause, an even _more_ silent pause because of his throat dammit, before the slow shuffle of footsteps continues and expands, “where are you, my dear?”

Oh, he knows that voice.

“Don’t _call_ me that,” _oh_ \- not that alone, then. Not that alone at _all_ as a certain chuckle drifts to his ears and somehow manages to make him simultaneously annoyed and fond, “’M in the bathroom. Been here for hours, would recommend getting a clothes peg if you’re planning on coming in.”

“…A clothes peg?” There’s a quick shuffle of feet towards him, it doesn’t stop the fondly annoyed feeling.

“How _posh_ are you?” or the annoyingly fond feeling, or _either_ of them in an entirely… Well, _annoying_ (irritating, aggravating – he _does_ know other words, despite the assumptions of certain Holmes brothers) way, “a clothes peg – something you, not your maid or butler or butler dressed in a maids uniform, use to pin up an item of clothing when you want it dry. Also something commonly used to block out any terrible smells in the area.”

“Come now,” there’s an amused pause from the other side before Mycroft delicately lays his hand on the handle, slowly opens the door, “I’m sure that you could _never_ smell terrible to me, Greg-“

The placating burble cuts off halfway through.

_Hah_! The placating burble cuts off halfway through and he even manages to turn himself slightly on the floor, aim a sickly smile at Mycroft’s puzzled expression like it’s some sort of _victory_ , “told you so.”

…Mycroft, his boyfriend – though that _still_ seems far too weird for everyday use, simply continues to look puzzled.

“I’ve been throwing up since lunchtime,” it gives him the chance to _very smugly_ continue, at least. Which is also something to be treated as a victory no matter how twisted it may or may not be, “mainly in this room. Six times, with a lot of retching around _that_.”

Mycroft’s puzzled expression becomes briefly worried. It’s almost satisfying, in a still cruel way, “what on earth…?”

_Satisfying_ -

…In a still _very_ cruel way. He sighs, before he can quite help himself, props himself up a little further and shrugs in a way that is supposed to be soothing but that probably falls incredibly short, “food poisoning.”

“Oh.”

“From last night, I think.”

“ _Oh_ ” …And now an _understanding_ expression is spreading across Mycroft’s face. Great. Lovely. _Brilliant_. He _knew_ that he should’ve helped himself.

“A dubious sausage,” And now he’s left only able to wearily inform, and slump back against the toilet again, and vaguely float the idea of throwing up all over Mycroft’s nice clean shoes before dismissing it as suicide-by-Anthea, “didn’t even look like a sausage, really. But it was dark and I was hungry and it came in a sort of bun thing, so I unwisely assumed that it’d be alright.”

“That does sound pretty unwise.”

Ugh. Suicide-by-Anthea might not be that bad, actually – might involve a sympathetic smile, a brief talk through his problems, an understanding nod as she slowly slipped poison into a mysteriously produced glass of gin, a noble lie to his family that he dramatically died wrestling a tiger and an evil overlord at exactly the same time-

“I don’t know why you’re looking so smug,” he settles for instead, as the far more sensible option, “this is _your_ fault, you know. And you shouldn’t look at all smug when you’re responsible for your pet police officer’s likely death.”

“It’s only food poisoning, darling, the chances of your death are extremely _un_ likely,” Mycroft does, at least, have the sense to… Start looking only mildly smug as is his default expression! “And how is it _my_ fault, pray?”

_Ugh_ -

…Ah.

That might be a problem. But he is a police officer and he is feeling only the _slightest_ bit nauseous and he can _deal_ with it, dammit, “if you’d taken me out to a nice restaurant last night then I wouldn’t be trying to forcibly remove my insides through my mouth.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft nods gracefully, if in a tone that suggests several less than complimentary things about his sanity, “but, as I recall, I didn’t take you to _any_ kind of restaurant last night.”

_Ah_.

“Yes,” he has to admit, reluctantly and _maybe_ with a bit of glaring, “but maybe if you _had_ the forcible removing wouldn’t be happening!”

“You were on a crime scene, _multiple_ crime scenes by the end of the night,” Mycroft just continues calmly, still in that suggestive tone that’s doing its very best to make him annoyed again (and maybe fond, _again_ , but that’s _entirely_ a side detail), “and you _hate_ it when I disturb you at crime scenes. Remember that time a year or so back where you wouldn’t talk to me for two weeks after my casual daily stroll happened to accidentally pass you?”

“No!” He can only yell in response, and then briefly hold a hand over his mouth as Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and then _bodily_ force the vomit back down and proudly raise his chin, “…Maybe. Yes – and you _weren’t_ strolling, you don’t know the _meaning_ of the word.”

“Strolling: To go for a leisurely walk…”

“And it’s all besides the point, anyway” he manages as firmly as he can, and forces the vomit down yet again, “this is still _all_ on you, for reasons that are undefined but _good_ , and I demand satisfaction!”

...Mycroft, halted halfway through his pedantic definition, only arches his eyebrow higher.

“ _What_?”

“You really are in a bad way, aren’t you?” And speaks pityingly, actually setting his _umbrella_ down and taking a slow step closer, “you can’t even come up with a coherent argument. Which, while _seemingly_ nice, is actually rather worrying indeed-“

He blinks for a moment, tries to ignore the still unfair sway of the world around him.

…Does not only see _red_ \- but scarlet, pink, crimson and all shades in between, “can too!”

Mycroft looks so unimpressed that it’s practically a sodding art form, “really?”

“Yes!”

“ _Really_?”

“ _Yes_!”

“I’d ask you to prove that,” Mycroft sniffs a touch scornfully, as he ignores the urge to clutch his stomach and open his mouth, “but you’re not really in the right state at present moment, and it’d be best regarded as a form of animal cruelty.”

“You-!” He still tries, through gritted teeth.

“Your current temperature is 37.9 °C, which explains a lot of the sweating. Your skin is pale, you’re shaking slightly and you’re obviously exhausted. You say that you’ve been dealing with this since lunchtime, roughly around noon, which means that you’ve been in this state for about six hours. You obviously feel like death warmed up, no matter how accurate that may or may not be, and you’ve actually _thrown up_ six times with a lot of retching besides,” Mycroft shuts him down, with his shaking limbs and pale skin and _real_ ache down in his stomach and up his throat, with a simple hand, “you _really_ aren’t, Gregory.”

“Am too-!” No matter, though, no matter, he _finally_ forces his mouth wide open and moves to clutch his stomach and-!

Oh.

…There was a reason he was against that in the first place.

The next few minutes are, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable of his life. Filled with clutching the toilet almost hard enough to break and actually throwing up and retching passionately afterwards and rocking miserably on his heels and feeling the _desperate_ urge to just close his eyes and let the world drift away for a (long) while.

It doesn’t (as expected).

…He comes back to himself to find Mycroft carefully kneeling besides him, gently stroking over his back and adopting the closest thing to a sincere smile that he can manage, “I told you that you weren’t alright.”

(It’s a start, he supposes.)

He gasps for a few further miserable moments before he can manage anything approaching speech “…This is still your fault.”

Mycroft only keeps rubbing, “oh?”

And that, if _anything_ , deserves a sharp turn of his head, a quick open of his mouth, a noble and heroic drawing up to defend every single one of his opinions at great length… A sickly sway of his stomach that soon has him ducking back over the toilet again and desperately hoping that nothing else comes up, “somehow.”

There’s a faintly sceptical noise from above. But Mycroft, mercifully, refrains from anything further – just keeps rubbing his back until his shoulders ease again.

(…It’s nice, really.)

“…You might catch it, you know,” he manages eventually, his fingers finally easing on the sides, “the food poisoning. You might end up in your very nice bathroom for _days_.”

He can tell that Mycroft is smiling, feel the warmth right along the side of his face, “that’s a risk that I’m willing to take.”

“Even after-?”

“Even after,” feel the press of lips, just briefly on his forehead, before the man finally draws back with another smile. Calmly keeps rubbing his back until he finally eases and allows himself to be guided over to a waiting towel.

And there are things worse than food poisoning, things _far_ worse than food poisoning, but he’s pretty sure that there isn’t anything better than that.


End file.
